Fannie Lou Hamer & the Freedom Farm Cooperative

Beloved community, April arrives the way it always does in Michigan; tentatively at first, then all at once. One morning, the ground is still stubborn and cold, and the next, something is pushing through. We call it Earth Month, but Mother Earth does not need a month. Mother Earth is always working. What Earth Month does, at its best, is return us to attention; to the slow, faithful labor happening beneath our feet, whether we notice or not. This month, I want to talk about that labor. Not just the labor of growing food, but the labor of staying whole while doing this work. The labor of belonging to one another. The labor of grief. Food sovereignty has never been only about food. It has always been about the conditions under which people live; who controls the land, who decides what is grown and for whom, whose hands are trusted to tend it, and whose labor is rendered invisible in the process. When we plant together, across our differences, we practice a different way of being in relationship with the earth and with each other. We are rehearsing the world we are trying to build. This is food sovereignty at its fullest: not a policy framework alone, but a practice of restoration. Of the land, yes. But also of people. Of community. Of self. Earth Month, then, is not just a celebration of the natural world. It is an invitation to remember that we are part of it; that the health of our soil and the health of our souls are not separate questions. This spring, I am carrying something heavier than usual. And I suspect many of you are too. Our community lost Melvin Parson. And that loss has settled into me like the coming of spring here in Michigan: quietly, then suddenly, everywhere. Melvin was a farmer, a visionary, and a neighbor. Through We The People Opportunity Farm, he built real pathways of belonging and dignity. He understood that food sovereignty is not only about growing food; it is about restoring people to possibility. Melvin planted seeds that will outlive all of us. In the soil and in the lives he helped rebuild. Rest in power, Melvin. We will keep tending what you planted. But grief does not arrive alone. And I think we need to name that. Something has been accumulating in many of us. The anxiety of not knowing whether your rent will hold, whether the program keeping your mother's medication affordable will survive the next budget cycle, whether the news tomorrow brings another cut, another threat, another loss. The weight of watching war unfold on a screen while packing your child's lunch. The low hum of uncertainty has grown so constant that many of us have stopped recognizing it as something being done to us. Mental health in our communities is rarely one dramatic moment. It is the slow erosion of the conditions that makes life feel possible. And right now, those conditions are under pressure from every direction. We are not imagining it. It is real. And it deserves to be named. I do not want to move past this moment too quickly, because I think it is asking something of us. Those of us who work in food systems, in community organizing, in the daily labor of trying to repair what has been broken, we carry a particular weight. The need is constant. The resources are not. The work is relational, which means every loss is personal. Every family facing hunger has a name. Every policy that fails our community lands in someone's body. We are not separate from the communities we serve. We are one of them. And that means the strains of this moment: economic precarity, political hostility, grief, isolation, and the relentless demand to do more with less all live within us. I have been thinking about what it means to tend ourselves the way Mother Earth tends herself. To acknowledge that fallow seasons are not failures. That rest is not retreat. That asking for help is not a weakness, but the most honest form of community care. Mother Earth is not asking us to be strong; she’s asking us to be present. This April, I am inviting Growing Hope's community into that same practice. Tend your plot, yes, but also tend your people. Check on your neighbors. Come to the farm not just to grow food, but to be held by the community. Let the soil remind you that transformation is slow, and real, and worth it. We are in this together. And together is the only way through. In solidarity, Julius P.S. If this month is weighing on you, you don't have to carry it alone. The NAMI HelpLine offers free, confidential one-on-one support, mental health information, and resources — available Monday through Friday, 10am–10pm ET. Call 1-800-950-NAMI (6264) or text NAMI to 62640. And if you need a reason to get outside and be with people, join us on April 11, 10am–1pm for our Spring Seedling Distribution.

Beloved community, Last season, organizers of all sizes hosted 168 events at the Ypsilanti Farmers MarketPlace, from mutual aid distributions and cultural gatherings to health outreach and food policy conversations. These moments reflect how we steward shared resources to maximize good and meet multiple community needs at once. At the heart of it all is the Ypsilanti Farmers Market itself. If you’ve spent any time at the market, you know that it’s never just been a place to shop. It’s a place to linger. To listen. To organize. To feed one another, body and spirit. Together, we are building a food ecosystem where everyone has access to fresh produce and where advocacy, mutual aid, and belonging intersect. That was especially clear this year when our community faced a sudden gap in food access. When early federal funding shifts threatened nutrition dollars, our community didn’t wait. Together, we rapidly designed and launched the Ypsi SNAP Gap Program, a locally powered response that ensured hundreds of local families could continue to access food. As we move through spring, your support sustains this work; keeping vendor fees low, strengthening food access programs, and maintaining the MarketPlace as a space for belonging. Every gift sustains a place to live, organize, and nourish one another. With deep gratitude, Julius Buzzard Executive Director P.S. Your early spring support ensures we’re ready to respond when our community needs it most.